


A Simple Question

by Angel Ascending (angel_in_ink)



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Fjord Talks, Gen, Spoilers through episode 75 of Campaign 2, The Wildmother Listens
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-16
Updated: 2019-08-16
Packaged: 2020-09-02 11:40:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20275318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angel_in_ink/pseuds/Angel%20Ascending
Summary: Fjord stared up at the patch of cloudy winter sky that he could see through the mouth of the cave for an endless time. Caduceus had said the Wildmother was always listening. He didn’t have any incense to burn, but there was the smell of the smoke mixing with the winter air, and maybe that was enough.





	A Simple Question

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CinWicked](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CinWicked/gifts).

> For my braintwin, who inspired this story by providing the question, and whose texts on Thursday nights and at all other times bring me much joy.

It had been days since the party returned to the Kiln with Umagorn Smeltborne in tow, hours since the hammering had stopped, minutes since he had told Fjord that soon the sword would be finished.

“It’s all done except for the fine details and the polishing,” the dwarf had told him with pride and disbelief in his voice in equal measure, as if he couldn’t believe it himself. “I— my gifts are all to do with metal and fire, not magic, but I felt _something_ when I quenched the blade. Like there’s something in the metal, waiting for the right person to pick it up.”

_Am I that person?_ Fjord thought to himself as he made his way towards the entrance of the Kiln. He did not walk outside into the snow, just sat in the entryway where he could feel the chill of winter in front of him and the heat of the forge behind him. He had done so much, his _friends _had done so much, and what if it had been for nothing?

As soon as Fjord thought that, he shook his head. No, even if that sword were not meant for him, it would not have been for nothing. He had _changed_ during this journey, or perhaps had simply changed _back,_ but either way this had been a catalyst for something greater. It could be that the sword was meant for another. It could be that _he _was meant for another. Wasn’t that what Caduceus had told him? That he might be a gift for someone else? Except—

Fjord stared up at the patch of cloudy winter sky that he could see through the mouth of the cave for an endless time. Caduceus had said the Wildmother was always listening. He didn’t have any incense to burn, but there was the smell of the smoke mixing with the winter air, and maybe that was enough.

“I—I am a little out of my element here,” Fjord said to the sky, to the snow, to the stone, for the goddess was present in all those things. “I am a man of the sea at heart, unused to snow or mountains. I am also not used to gods, I suppose. We didn’t really bother with that sort of thing at the orphanage. When I was at sea, some of the sailors worshipped you or the Stormlord, but it was a— a casual sort of belief I suppose, mixed in with superstitions and old wives tales. And I— I am not a casual sort of person, though I tried to act like one. I like rules, and order, knowing that to do, being told what to do. Or I _did_ like that. I—“

Fjord put his head in his hands. “The—he— Uk’otoa—“ Fjord spat out the name like he had spit out seawater after his nightmares. “_He _told me what to do, and there was comfort in that at first. My life had changed so much, but I had words to follow, and I followed them. But then— things changed. _I _changed. I wanted power, I will not lie about that. I dreamed of controlling the sea and it was _thrilling_. But the price—“ He looked up at the sky. “I could do what _he_ bid me, I could free him and bring about the endless ocean and it would cost me nothing except all the lives of the people whose cities would be drowned beneath the waves. If I was a different man, the man Uk’otoa thought I was, or the man Avantika thought I was, perhaps I would have done it without a second’s hesitation. But I am not that man. I am not entirely sure _who_ I am these days, but I am trying to find out.”

Fjord laughed softly as he wiped away the tears he hadn’t realized he’d been shedding. “I am an emotional man who rambles on, I suppose. Vandren was neither of those things. But I am. I—“ He shook his head. “I will understand if you think me a poor fit for you. I don’t think I would make a very good cleric, if I’m being honest, and I am not sure what other options there might be for someone like me. There is a lot I don’t know. Maybe there is another god that would suit me better. Caduceus said that was a possibility, that I might be a gift for someone else, but— but I don’t—“ He took a deep breath. “I don’t _want_ that.”

Fjord felt himself shaking at the admission, shame causing his cheeks to burn. Few people in his life had cared about what he had wanted. Not anyone at the orphanage, certainly. Not Uk’otoa. Not Avantika. Vandren had been the first to care, in his own way. And then there had been Jester, and Beau and Nott and Caleb and Molly and Yasha and Caduceus, people who had cared about his wants and needs, who listened when he spoke, both in his borrowed voice and his own. And now the Wildmother, who had protected him from the abuse of his patron the best that She had been able to. Who had offered him comfort and rest. Who had been _kind._

Fjord had wanted to ask the Wildmother so many questions the other night, but there had been one question he had wanted and been afraid to ask above all others. He had been so embarrassed even by the thought of it that he had buried it under other questions, drowned it in a flood of words. But he was alone now. No. Not alone. She was listening. He took a deep breath, opened his mouth to ask the question he needed answered most—

“Fjord?”

Fjord yelped as a hand fell on his shoulder and he tried to scramble to his feet, falling against the side of the cave wall instead as Beau let out a yell of her own.

“Sorry! Sorry! Shit, I thought you heard me coming, I wasn’t trying to be quiet or anything.”

Fjord put a hand on his chest as if that would stop the hammering of his heart.

“I just wanted to tell you that the sword was done. Like all the way done. It looks fucking _amazing._”

“I—uhh— thank you, Beau,” Fjord panted as he got his breath back. “I’ll be there in a minute.”

“Fjord, were you _praying?_ You were, weren’t you? And I interrupted. I’m sorry.”

Fjord shook his head. “It’s all right,” he said, then put his hand on Beau’s shoulder when she gave him a disbelieving look. “No really, it is. I can pray anytime,” he said, and it wasn’t just empty words meant to comfort. It was true. He put a hand on her shoulder. “Let’s go see this sword, shall we?”

————

_Oh._ Fjord thought the moment he laid eyes on the sword. _Oh, there you are._

He had been so nervous walking up to the anvil on which the sword had rested, had felt himself trembling as if he had been hit by the breath of the ancient white dragon whose breath had enchanted the mithril. He had known that his friends were walking beside him, but it was if his vision had tunneled down to a single point, the anvil by the pool of lava where he had thrown his old sword, still covered in his blood, away from him. A sacrifice to himself, of himself. And there was the result of that sacrifice, of his friend’s sacrifices for his sake, their time and energy and love and care. It was all there, in a sword that shone like the full moon in summer.

“It’s _beautiful_,” Fjord heard Jester say, heard others respond and add their own comments. Slowly he reached out a hand, pausing over the hilt, his fingers a mere few inches away.

“Let’s give Fjord some space,” Fjord heard Caduceus say, heard the gentle murmur of his friends and the shuffling of their feet as they stepped back.

Fjord’s eyes traced the lines of the sword, the runes that shimmered in the light from the lava, the straightness of the blade. It _was_ beautiful. But—

The unasked question for the Wildmother, heavy in his mouth, tumbled past his lips as he closed those few precious inches and laid his hand on the hilt, not clutching it, just resting lightly there.

“Can I be yours?”

There was silence for two beats of his heart, and then there was a gentle pressure under his chin as if there were a hand there, guiding his movements. Fjord tilted his head up.

Her skin was the green of leaves in spring, Her hair a tangle of vines and flowers that spilled past her shoulders, but it was Her eyes that Fjord thought were the most extraordinary. They were as dark and deep as the ocean, but there was nothing terrifying swimming in those depths. She did not speak, not in words, but there was warmth there in her eyes, warmth and acceptance and love and welcome.

It was all the answer he needed.

**Author's Note:**

> During last night's episode, when Fjord was trying to ask the Wildmother some very verbose and convoluted questions (has anyone else noticed that since Fjord dropped the accent he has a tendency to speak more? I love it), and I was typing out a text saying "Less words Fjord, you're overthinking," my braintwin texted, "The question is simple, Fjord. 'Can I be yours?'"
> 
> And then I had emotions forever.
> 
> I'm angel-ascending on Tumblr and angel-in-ink on Twitter if y'all want to stop by and say hi!


End file.
